Petrus Goes To The Monaco Grand Prix

'Petrus
Goes To The Monaco Grand Prix'
is the 3rd in my 'Petrus F1' series of original copyrighted comedy
sketches written by Tom Riach (that's me above) from my home in the
sunny south of Portugal.

Tom Riach's Daily View Of The World!

PRELUDE

Petrus
is an avid Formula One follower. So not surprisingly he is confused.
And with a name like Petrus he obviously enjoys the odd glass or
three of wine, consumed at the mythical Woolsack pub which is
frequented by a motley crew of equally befuddled fellow Formula One
addicts. Petrus attracts scrapes effortlessly, is shamelessly
promiscuous and is known to consult an ample-bosomed psychotherapist
with a uniquely intimate consulting style. Read on ....

PETRUS
GOES TO THE MONACO GRAND PRIX

There are three suns in my life
- sunshine, sun flowers and sunsovbitshes. My Napoleon-hallucinating
next bedfellow was one of the last mentioned and driving me insane
(?!?). He was convinced that asylum orderlies were sabotaging his
beloved Lady Hamilton's recovery, no matter that his Lady Hamilton
was in reality the fat Geordie with the plumptious builders bottom in
the next bed on - but thus is the power of deranged imagination.
Fortunately respite for me was at hand.

My latest electroencephalograph
showed encouragingly reduced frontal lobe activity so my notoriously
ample-busted shrink agreed to my request to have the Monaco Grand
Prix week-end 'out'. Blessed relief! Soon as I hit the street I
phoned Alcoholics Anonymous. "Do you want to join?"
enquired the receptionist. "No I want to resign!" Then I
headed for the Woolsack. The race was just starting. Achilles
immediately thrust a pint of John Smith's into my fist. The first
frith of froth had barely brushed my lip when John smacked me round
the ear 'ole and grabbed 'is pint back. I stamped on Achilles' heel
as would've made John Terry proud and retreated seeking solace to the
alcove where sat the provocatively hot-panted Ms.Padded End.

She quickly apologised for
having sniggered at my wee Renault 4 when we last made out and
assured me that size didn't matter but simultaneously confided to me
that she was currently 'seeing' a tow truck driver with a Skania
straight 8! I happened to know this guy as he had recently been
admitted to my psychiatric ward having been found sobbing
uncontrolably in his cab in a lay-by. The doctors concluded that he
was heading for a breakdown!

Just then I saw Danimik at the
far end of the bar. He was wearing a suicide vest packed with
explosives and emblazoned with the motto, "Death to Ferrari."
"Don't do it!" I yelled but too late. He pressed the
ignition, no explosion but a cloud of black smoke billowed through
the pub. Through the haze I saw Nico Rosberg throttling Lewis
Hamilton!

Running into the toilet I found
Bernie Ecclestone singing bawdy sea shanties and performing an
outstanding impression of Seaman Staines. The melee tumbled in behind
me. In the thick of the throng Mouse answered his not-so-smart phone,
"Mouse squeaking, how can I help you?" His wife
said,"Darling if you win the Monaco Grand Prix million dollar
sweepstake will you still love me?" "Of course I will
Janice, I'll miss you but I'll still love you!"

Meanwhile Flying Lobster had
collapsed, red in the face after grappling with a grave digger, also
an inmate of 'my' psychiatric hospital (this chap had been found
confused and wandering aimlessly around the cemetary - analysts
diagnosed him as having lost the plot)! Suspecting that Flying
Lobster was suffering a heart attack, his wife who had always
resented his passion for all things F1, wrote for an ambulance. Then
Old Canuck skated into the fray swirling his hockey stick at all and
sundry. In the mayhem he bonked barmaid Kate flush on the nose (she'd
forever after be known as bonking Big Nosed Kate) and smashed the
giant screen Grand Prix-showing telly. A deathly hush descended as
the realisation of no race to watch sank in. Then just as quickly the
mob charged as one to the door, "To the Dancing Ferret!"
was the cry.

As
I exited carrying a firkin of purloined Pomerol to see me through the
race the truncheon caught me full on the neck ....

Coming to I looked
around the ward. Nothing had changed. 'Next bed' was ranting anew
that Lady Hamilton's hopes had again been sabotaged. I cursed him
quietly and wished that he'd shut up and go to Elba. My psychiatrist
arrived and cradled my throbbing head to her buxom bosom. This was
more like it. "Well how was Monaco Pet?" "Not bad at
all. Really rather lively," I under stated. "Who won?"
"Dunno. Best ask Captain Pugwash over there," as I thumbed
towards le petit caporal, "Probably Black Pig Renault," I
chortled. Then I lay back to savour the soft embrace enveloping me
and turned my thoughts as to how I'd wangle my release for the next
rumble on the F1 agenda at Silverstone? My most manic grin slid over
my face as a cunning plan formulated in my mind. All that was
required was to prove myself sane …....... ?!

End.

Tom Riach lives and works in the sunny south of
Portugal. I carry out all types of Writing Assignments – Articles,
Content, Copy, Business Plans, Website Scripts and Short Stories and
Humourous, Satirical, Sporting and Topical Reference Pieces like the
one above. I'll write anything, any style for anybody! Just contact
me as below.

PETRUS
GOES TO THE MONACO GRAND PRIX

is
an original copyrighted Tom
Riach
comic sketch. I hope you enjoyed reading about 'Petrus
Goes To The Monaco Grand Prix'
and found it entertaining. To learn more about my work, inquire re.
commissions or just to get in touch with me please visit me on my
website at TOM
RIACH - FREELANCE WRITER